I’ve always loved to give. It’s in my bones, part character, part upbringing, part unspoken survival skill. When I was younger, it came so naturally to pour myself into others. I was the helper. The one who showed up. The one who quietly said yes, even when I was tired, even when it hurt, even when no one said thank you. I didn’t think much of it. That’s just who I was: the people pleaser, the over-giver, the one who never wanted to be a burden. For a long time, I also tried

I used to believe there was only one way to grow. A neat, tidy garden path with perfect timing, ideal conditions, and someone else’s approval. For a long time, I also tried to live up to the standards of society and the expectations of the people around me. I believed that if I worked hard enough, behaved the right way, and followed the path others approved of, I would finally feel like I belonged. Like a garden flower, I tried to shape myself: manicured, measured, bending to

I come from a background filled with trauma. For a long time, I didn’t understand why my past felt so heavy, why it shaped how I viewed myself, relationships, and the world. But now I believe that God called me on this journey because of that past. When we opened our home 4 years ago, it started as a family home. We thought we were ready to care for others from a healthy place, having done personal work and prepared ourselves as best we could. But as the first children moved